


What Telescopes Can See

by Only_1_Truth



Series: 00Q Merman AU [1]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mermaid Q, Pirates, Pre-Quartermaster-Q, Pre-Relationship, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/pseuds/Only_1_Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When MI6 is called in to deal with a pirate who has managed to evade every attempt to find and capture him, even the less than human contingents at England's command, James Bond is sent undercover on the high seas.  He thinks that his mission will get easier once he finally gains entrance to the nefarious crew of Captain Silva... but that's before he sees something at the edge of his telescope, and then merpeople get involved, and suddenly life is no longer so simple...  </p><p>A story where mer-folk exist, are allied with MI6, and have a habit of complicated the lives of undercover 00-agents - namely, a merman named Q complicated the lives of an agent named James Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my [artist](http://agirlinpaddingtonstation.tumblr.com/) \- I'll post her artwork shortly, but I was incredibly blessed to get it. It's a dog-eat-dog competition for art in the Reverse-Big-Bang, and everyone is looking for different thing. I'm always looking for _a story_ , and this was the story I wanted. And I got it, and my artist deserves all of the hugs for letting me take her art and turn it into words. 
> 
> Also, kudos and cookies must be given to my beta [Mistflyer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102). I've a nasty habit of posting without editing, but she caught me ;) 
> 
> And everyone should be thanking [MinMu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MinMu) for moderating the Big Bang this year. I don't care what anyone else says, she's amazing, and anyone willing to be the Mod for this is five kinds of saintly. GO HUG HER.

The _Wastrel_ was a gorgeous ship: a delightful combination of size and speed, making her eminently maneuverable while also being large enough to demand respect in a pinch - her prow was also just heavy enough to cut through the waves that would have tossed and rocked slighter ships.  She responded like a dream to the slightest touch to her wheel, and looked as proud as a gull settled on the sea.

James Bond would have liked her a lot more if she weren’t a pirate ship.

MI6 had sent Bond to a lot of places, but it had been awhile since he’d been on board a ship.  His years in the Navy were paying dividends, however, and he moved as easily as any of the old sea-dogs that populated the _Wastrel_.  He’d almost forgotten the feel of salt clinging to his hair and skin, and the extra care that had to be taken to ensure that guns weren’t damaged by the sea’s pervasive presence.  Unlike the Navy, the _Wastrel_ ran under different rules, if she ran under any at all - Captain Raoul Silva was a law unto himself, however, so anything he said was something to live by… or die by.  It had taken nearly a year of work and twice that in setting up a backstory to get James on his ship, and now James was finally high enough in the ranks to tear it all down around Silva’s ears.  Captain Silva had terrorized Her Majesty's fleet more than enough, but it remained to be seen whether one man - even a 00-agent - could put a stop to that.  

Spyglasses seemed like a thing of the past, but James found he liked them, and it was probably one of the reasons that he agreed to the position in the crow’s-nest so often.  Now, he found himself leisurely scanning the horizon as far as the collapsible telescope could see, marveling at the crackling white waves cresting over the azure sea of blue.  For a moment, he could forget that he was undercover, acting like a rogue and a criminal, risking his life to find out how the hell Captain Silva was forever slipping past blockades or coming upon other ships unnoticed, like a ghost in the dark.  How in the world was he getting past-?

Bond was in the middle of the question in his head when he caught movement at the edge of his spyglass’s range.  Sweeping back and panning carefully, it took a few moments before James caught upon what the source of movement was - shapes breaking through the waves in subtle snatches.  One of those shapes briefly topped a spike of stone lancing out of shallow waters in the distance, sitting like a jewel atop a wave-besieged sceptre.  “Speak of the devil,” James murmured, a faint smile just touching at the corner of his mouth.

Since the days of Sir Francis Drake, merfolk had been curiously allied to the British throne.  Historians had written whole treatises on precisely why, but James was of a more practical nature, insofar as he knew merfolk to be allies.  Piracy would probably have been far worse, had the aquatic creatures not jealousy defended their waters from enemy ships.  Somehow, though, the _Wastrel_ had been dodging both the Queen’s ships and the merfolk for nearly three years now, and no one was any closer to understanding why.

However, it looked very much like Silva’s evasion tactics had failed him this time.  The merfolk were heading right towards the ship.

Loyalty and necessity tangled in Bond’s chest, constricting around his heart until he grimaced.  Sounding a warning was expected of him as a member of Silva’s crew, but telling everyone that a phalanx of merpeople were coming was the same as calling out fellow agents.  007 wasn’t trained to be indecisive, however, so after coldly weighing the pros and cons for just seconds, he raised his voice, “Fish coming in on the starboard side!”  His mission was still too precarious to risk blowing his cover, and since he was the one on looking, it would be pretty obvious sabotage on his part to turn a blind eye and let the merfolk (‘fish’) in close.  Besides, it wasn’t as if the merfolk knew that they had an ally on board - if the attack went through, James would be as quickly drowned as the next pirate.

As the _Wastrel_ began to swarm with activity, 007 grimly hoped that the merfolk were smart enough to retreat when things got rough.  Missing his sleek shoulder-rig but checking the more rugged holsters at either hip, 007 descended the rigging to join in with the growing excitement on deck.  It felt a lot like joining sharks when chum was thrown in the water.  

Of course, it had yet to be determined whether they were actually the sharks.

~^~

It was chaos.  In this mission, Bond had already been in at least a dozen sea battles, but he’d honestly never taken into account the amount of trouble a mere ten merfolk could cause.  His only interactions with them had been from a distance, in controlled and polite circumstances, although he’d read up on just how dangerous they could be - incredibly muscular for all of their lithesomeness, capable of speech but also of telepathy that meant coordinating group movements was never a problem even over great distances, and in possession of an affinity for water that 007 had always had a hard time believing.  

He was having a significantly easier time believing it all now.

“How the hell did they find us?  The captain said they couldn’t,” one of the crewman snarled, cradling an arm that had been dislocated - or possibly worse - when the ship’s deck had been overhauled by a massive wave.  The sea had been calm at the start of this, but by the time the attack started, waves were rushing up at the sides of the ship like hounds leaping for a treed raccoon.  As if urged on by the merfolks’ bidding, they’d started surging right over the railings now, and anything (or anyone) not firmly attached to the deck was liable to be swept off.  James thanked his superb footing and sense of balance for not yet being among the unlucky few to be carried off to a watery grave.  

“I don’t know how they found us, but they have, so shut yer yap and do your job!” shouted another crewman even as the whole ship rocked.  Even the hardiest of seaman were going to get nauseous at this rate, James thought, as he used his free hand to grab hold of the nearest stable object.  His other hand was occupied by a machete - the weapon of choice when everything was soaking wet and your targets didn’t give you time to aim anyway.  A few men had  been sent up into the rigging with rifles, and from their lofty perches, out of the reach of all but the finest spray, they were taking shots at the water.  James winced, wondering how many merfolk were going to end up with mortal holes in them.  Bond didn’t have time to feel like a traitor to his allies, however, because at that moment another massive wedge of water rose almost majestically out of the water, teetering on high before crashing down onto the deck.  For what felt like forever trapped in an eyeblink, Bond and everything around him was submerged in water.

He opened his eyes to see a world of blue around him, and shadows slicing through it.  

It was reflex.  James saw something coming his way with a metallic glint leading, so James jerked his arm up, the pull of the water slowing him down.  Despite the drag, however, Bond felt his machete connect, and something swerved past him - a harpoon? - to imbed in the mainmast behind him.  Seconds later, momentum carried the lancer after its weapon, and 007 was slammed into.  

Had the wave not dissipated then, rushing back from whence it had come, Bond might have been in trouble, but instead his attacker slewed off him.  Reflexively, James followed, gasping as he got his head - and soon his chest, then stomach, water level dropping - above water, wading through the shallower and shallower depths.  He hadn’t bloodied his blade yet, but his training was a harsh voice in his ear, reminding him with cold solemnity of the rule ‘kill or be killed.’  Of course, logic was whispering through there, too, because despite general opinion, 007 wasn’t a blunt instrument - even now, as he stalked towards the dazed merperson, he was calculating what to do exactly.  He could see that this was actually a mer _maid_ , although her sleek build was more androgynous than children’s fairy tales and pop culture would have one believe.  All built out of sleek muscle and the merest suggestion of curve, she was as streamlined as the harpoon she’d tried to nail Bond with.  

Just as James was beginning to notice her darker coloration - shades of dark sable with a glistening, fish-scale sheen that made him think of the insides of oyster shells - the mermaid turned, tail thrashing water that was already fast becoming too shallow for her to maneuver in.  A quick glance told James that all of the other merfolk that had joined in the maneuver had been luckier, following the massive wave both on _and off_ the deck and leaving skewered sailors behind.  It looked like only Bond had been fast enough to throw a wrench into the works, and now he had a pretty, dark-skinned face turned his way, almond-shaped eyes full of fury and not a speck of fear as she snarled at him.

Then recognition snapped like a static charge between them both, and James almost physically stumbled.  

For the most part, MI6 operatives were land-based, and had little to do with the merfolk that patrolled the waters.  Before going on this mission, however, James had been brought down to the docks and introduced even though no one knew where or on what ship 007 would eventually end up.  It had been surreal to stand next to M and Tanner, and watch as a half-human shape had boldly propped her elbows on the edge of the deck, face smiling and emerald, scaled tail descending into the waters below.  

‘Eve’ was the name she’d given, startling James with the knowledge that something so alien could talk.  And now he was staring right at her, faced with the knowledge that he’d just fouled up her mission by trapping her on deck.  

There was still a good two feet of water left, but it was receding rapidly, rushing in waterfalls off all sides of the open deck.  It was also moving fast enough that Bond had to watch his footing scrupulously, lest it be dragged out from under him.  Perhaps it would be enough for Eve…?

The flash of understanding in her eyes said that she was thinking the same, and her chin dipped in the barest nod, even as she lashed her tail and made to lunge at him.

There was, of course, at least a fifty-fifty chance that she really _was_ attacking him, so it was easy to act like he was going on the defensive.  After all, this was a battle, and Eve had only met him for a total of fifteen minutes - long enough to exchange names and memorize faces, and be told that James Bond was MI6, and therefore working for Her Majesty.  It wasn’t precisely long enough to build trust or some sort of rapport.  Cursing the water that dragged at his calves, Bond backed up, switching his grip on his machete to something more for blocking than for stabbing, although he took a swing calculated to miss just as Eve got close.

At the last second, however, her body turned in a supple motion that should have been impossible for anything with a spine.  Maybe an otter could do it, as she twisted with all the grace of water itself to duck under Bond’s slash and swerve around him and towards the nearest railing.  Bond shouted a warning even though he knew that no one was close enough to stop her, as Eve skated shallowly across the wave and let it wash her back towards the sea.  The water was so shallow that it had to be just about scraping her belly, but Bond recalled the way all merfolk had an affinity with water-

Bond’s thoughts were rapidly cut off as shouting erupted from behind him, but by the time he turned - his reflexes not quite fast enough this time - a second, far smaller wave was rearing over the side of the ship.  He could see only one lithe shadow hidden in its depths this time, but just before she disappeared over the other side, Eve looked shocked and screamed something, indicating that this was not part of the plan.  Bond had just enough time to take that in before the smaller wave crashed down _right on him_ , and for the second time he found himself fending off a creature that was supposed to be his ally.  

“If you hurt her-!”  It was a shock to be able to hear the furious words, because Bond’s head was entirely under water, and so was the scowling mouth of the merman that was talking to him.  Somehow, though, probably with the same inexplicable magic that made waves listen to them, the merman was able to launch his words through the water as easily as land-folk could through air.  The desperation and anger were palpable in every word, and James swore mutely as he realized that he’d just become the intended casualty of a rescue mission - an unnecessary one, since Bond had let the other mer-person go.  

Not that Bond could very well tell his opponent that.  

007 had long since noticed that even the most muscular merman was built lean, but this new one was small even by those standards, although he commanded the water around him with consummate skill, keeping the fight embroiled in a cocoon of water that was likely to drown Bond if the merman didn’t gut him first.  Adrenalin already thick in his system, Bond pushed down the fear that tried to rise, even as his back hit the deck and the merman landed on him, wielding a remarkably modern knife instead of a honed harpoon.  Bond caught the wrist holding the weapon, and nearly followed through on his second instinct: to use the brief opening to counterthrust, stabbing right up into the unprotected chest cavity while he had the chance.  

The merman above him looked so young, though, with large hazel eyes presently narrowed in the wrath of a protective friend, and a whole cloud of dark hair surrounding his head, defying gravity as water continued to do the same all around them.  The webbed hand trying to push a dagger into Bond’s face right now was long-fingered and slender, the kind of hand seen on pianists and artists, not killers.  

Bond turned his thrust, punching upwards with his fist wrapped around the hilt and connecting with a smooth stretch of pale stomach where flesh devolved into green-and-gold scales.  The force he lost to the resistance of the water was made up for by the machete’s grip bracing the bones of his hand, creating a punch nearly as devastating as one he could have delivered in a bare-knuckled brawl on land.  The lithe creature above him flinched, but the true sign that 007 had succeeded was the way the water jerked around them both like a heart seizing before giving out.  Either stunned by the shock of the blow or the pain of it, the merman lost control for a crucial second, and the mass of water gave way to gravity with a descending rush.  

Even before he had access to fresh air again, James twisted, not liking the nearness of the knife still held in that webbed hand.  Without the laws of aquatic physics going haywire around him anymore, it was relatively easy to twist his body, legs tangled up in a suddenly ungainly tail, and reverse their positions with a splash.  Green eyes flecked with an almost golden shade of brown stared up at him in surprise for a second, then winced shut as Bond automatically took the merman’s left wrist - the knife-wielding one - and slammed it hard against the watery deck.  The blade went skittering away.  Bond’s flash of triumph was sharply tempered when his opponent’s other hand came up, slapping hard across 007’s cheek and leaving behind stinging trails that spoke of cut skin.  The list of things Bond knew about merfolk was _not_ a long one, but he added ‘have claws’ to his knowledge even as he grappled the other limb down to the deck, letting go of his own weapon in the process.  The body under him writhed, pale skin stretched taut over wiry muscles, and a long, scaled tail lashing against Bond’s back and calves.  “Let me go!” the merman yelped in a voice that was startling to hear above water, especially because it sounded painfully young - enough that Bond froze for a second, self-preservation finally backing down enough to let him think with something other than his reflexes.  He thought of the figure he’d seen perched on the rock so far away, a deceptively aloof sentinel above the waves.

The terrible irony of the situation didn’t escape Bond.  He’d purposefully let one mermaid go in the hopes of not getting an ally killed… only to capture another one.  All of the water had receded from the deck now, too, so even if James got up and blatantly cleared the way, he doubted that a half-fish person could make much of an escape.  The dark-haired merman panting under him (breathing air now, it looked like, the gill-slits on either side of his neck sealed tightly shut) was definitely made for an aquatic life, and the thought of him dragging himself across the deck was an awkward, painful mental image.  

“What’s your name?” James hissed, mind racing and knowing that time was short now.  The sounds of fighting had actually come to a halt, indicating that either the merfolk’s collective strength was waning, or they realized that the humans on the ship had a hostage.  A rather non-combative-looking hostage, in Bond’s opinion, although James could feel blood trickling hotly down his jaw that spoke to the heart of a fighter if not the physique.

For a moment, the merman stopped struggling, if only to stare at Bond like he’d grown a second head.  “Q,” he mumbled reflexively.  For a second, Bond wondered if he was being taunted, because that was definitely not a name, but he took what he could get.  

“Look, Q, you’ve got to trust me,” Bond kept talking urgently but too quietly for his voice to carry.  He heard someone shout his name in a proud, excited voice - probably someone noticing that Richard Sterling was not only still alive, but straddling one of their enemies.  When Q narrowed his eyes and curled his lip to say something no-doubt acerbic and contrary (revealing neat, sharp little canines and secondaries, but otherwise normal human teeth), Bond bore down on his wrists until the merman gasped at the painful pressure.  James got in his face to growl, “There’s no time to argue about this.  I’m not your enemy - but _they_ are.  So follow my lead.”  

“Trying to scare him to death, Sterling?”

Bond backed off only far enough to call back over his shoulder, roughening up his accent with ease, “Figured scaring it’d get more answers than gutting it would.”

Someone else walked up, and there was the sound of splinters being created as Eve’s harpoon was pulled loose.  James hid the way his shoulders tensed, pretending not to mind the weapon at his back and instead focusing on the enemy at his front.  Q was definitely watching everything, his wide eyes actually doing a lot to keep Bond apprised of what was going on behind him - nothing that boded well.  It sounded like everyone was either picking themselves up or boldly coming their way.  Knowing he had to talk fast and smart to keep control of the situation, James sat back a bit, although he didn’t let go of Q’s wrists.  “How’d they find us anyway?  I thought they couldn’t.”

Howard Tallent, or ‘Boss Tallent’ as he was called, came around into Bond’s line of vision.  He was a bit, brutish man who at first glance looked like a poster-child for all muscle and no brains, but whom 007 knew to be far more cunning than that.  Eyes narrowed above an oft-broken wreck of a nose.  “And how d’you figure that?” he asked in a voice as low as the groaning of a mast.

James’s poker-face as a good one.  He met Boss Tallent’s eyes without a flinch, his expression flat and guileless.  “Heard some’un say it.  It’s true, innit?  We never get caught because catfish like these can’t find us.”  Q took that moment as an opportunity to try and shake Bond loose, but 007 had sensed it, feeling the tightening of Q’s frame against his hands and beneath his thighs.  He easily kept his perch atop the merman’s middle, although others around them yelped and shouted as they dodged the thrashing tail.  Someone snarled something vicious, and then James heard a thunk of something imbedded in the deck at the same time that Q suddenly cried out and flinched in a shock of pain.  A sharp glance back and James had to fight a sympathetic wince of his own, noting that Eve’s discarded harpoon was now pinning one of Q’s lateral fins (one of the two that extending from either side of his tail, about midway down it, their color more gold than green) to the deck.  The fine webbing of the fin was torn, and Q had the choice of either holding very still or shredding it even worse, although at least the stubborn young shit seemed to be making the smart choice at the moment.  Bond scowled, wishing that Q had thought about just holding still before now.  

The one upside of this whole dangerous debacle was that Bond had just had one of his long-time suspicions confirmed: part of the pirates’ success was due to a mysterious means of hiding from the patrolling merfolk.  Boss Tallent’s expression confirmed it, because while the man’s face barely twitched, James was specifically trained at reading people, and no attempt had been made to argue against Bond’s words.  

Someone behind James growled, “Fillet it already,” and James’s keen ears picked up the familiar sound of a blade sliding free of a scabbard.  Even though their ship was so often safe from merfolk and their watery skills, all of the pirates had a predilection for dependable edged weaponry that was borderline archaic, and James found himself missing the days when getting shot at was more common than being knifed.  Q, still trapped underneath him, clearly thought differently, as the fear in his eyes became more visceral, and he seemed to shrink in on himself with the realization that he couldn’t get away.  ‘ _You’re starting to realize that this heroic business isn’t very glorious, aren’t you_?’ James thought at him uncharitably, even as he silently respected the loyalty that had driven Q up onto the ship to save his comrade Eve, even though Q clearly wasn’t a trained fighter.  That latter sentiment was probably James’s romantic side talking.  

Pretending not to be disturbed by the impending violence rising like a kerosine-fed fire all around him, 007 kept his eyes on Boss Tallent, who for all that he was a stone-cold killer, was also levelheaded.  A few more people called for Bond (or rather Sterling) to finish Q off, and while this clearly unsettled the young merman under him (Q started wriggling, hissing as this no doubt tugged at his pinned fin), it didn’t even get James to blink.  “The Cap’ll want to know how they found us,” he said, sensible and calm, speaking just to the First Mate.  Deep-set eyes met his shrewdly.  

Right about when Q cried out from something that someone did to his tail out of Bond’s range of vision, Tallent raised his voice to the commanding below he did so well, “Leave off it!  We’re keepin’ this one alive!”  There were immediate grumbles, but no one questioned Boss Tallent - mostly because everyone had seen an occasion or two when Tallent had been ignored, and some poor disobedient fool had ended up with multiple broken bones.  Eyes narrowing a fraction and a frown curling down thick lips, Boss Tallent focused on Bond again, commanding, “And since you caught it, Sterling, you get to drag the thing below.  I’ll talk to Captain Silva about what he wants to do.”

“Yessir,” Bond replied immediately, relieved beyond measure but hiding it.  This was honestly the best outcome he could have hoped for: Q was still in life-threatening danger, but at least he wasn’t being summarily gutted right here, right now.  Those who’d been itching for some more death were stymied now, but thankfully, Boss Tallent was already redirecting everyone to other jobs - repairs, assisting the wounded, finding out who was dead altogether, and making sure there wasn’t another attack coming.  After all, Q’s companions were still out there.  Bond was beginning to suspect that Eve had gotten back to them and told that an MI6 agent was on board.  Maybe that explained the sudden silence from the waters.  Whatever the reason, Bond was thankful, because he didn’t need more chaos to contend with right now - one merman under his watch was already trouble enough.  

While everyone else backed up, Bond focused, took a deep breath, and began to make decisions about how to proceed.  All the while, Q watched him with those large, striking eyes, and whatever he’d seen on James’s face he must not’ve liked, because he started trying to wriggle his hands free.  James merely transferred both of Q’s wrists into a one-handed grip, briefly reminding himself to respect the merman’s strength - Q, at face value, was a lot less muscular than James, have an almost waifish frame, but he was still stronger than he looked.  Bond still managed to free up one hand long enough to look and reach back, spotting the harpoon currently stuck through Q’s right lateral fin, as well as a nasty gash along the meat of Q’s tail.  Scales of green and gold speckled the deck where Q’s struggles had scraped them off, and it made Bond wince almost as much as the redness of the fresh blood did.  All he did, however, was reach back and jerk the harpoon loose with a sharp tug; Q gasped, pain for a moment convincing him not to struggle.  Taking advantage of the moment of quiet, James tossed the harpoon aside, lifted his weight, released one of Q’s hands, and swiftly flipped his entire body over in one burst of strength.  

That, of course, started the fight all over again.  

Bond was going to be black and blue up and down his back come tomorrow, because for all that Q wasn’t a particularly big mer-person, he sure was a tenacious one - and flexible.  Even with his chest against the deck now and James twisting one arm sharply behind his back, Q’s tail was quite an adequate weapon, lashing everywhere and now also trailing blood in gory red streaks.  On top of that, Q was keeping his other webbed hand out of reach, preventing James from immobilizing him completely.  Swearing a blue streak like he hadn’t since the Navy - which was saying something, because ‘Richard Sterling’s’ language had been steadily worsening since taking on this mission - Bond finally snagged Q’s other forearm, yanking it back so sharply that the merman yelped.  The useless struggling continued even as someone tossed James a length of rope, which was efficiently coiled around thin wrists.  Setting his face into a thunderous scowl for appearance’s sake, James pressed a hand down to the back of Q’s neck and leaned close to speak in his ear.  Everyone else merely heard the growled timbre of his voice, the actual words accessible only to the creature underneath him, “I’m not going to let them kill you, but the more difficult you are, the more difficult _I’ve_ got to be.”

Certainly James’s tone wasn’t comforting, and the hand gripping Q’s nape couldn’t be either, callused fingers tangling up in wet locks of black-brown hair and holding tight.  However, something must have gotten through to Q, because he glanced back at the human - hazel eyes huge and afraid now, their wild courage fading - and then went still.  When there was no movement beneath him but heavy, fast panting, Bond sat back, the prisoner beneath him subdued.

“Wow, whatya tell ’im?” one of the other sailors asked, pausing in the process of gathering up a coil of rope that had been strewn everywhere by the waves.  “Little beastie went quiet like magic, ’e did.”

“I told ’im that if he hit me with his bloody tail one more damn time, I’d rip ’im open from ’is ears to ’is waist,” Bond lied viciously, pulling his secondary knife from his boot (his machete was nowhere to be seen, probably picked up by another crewman) to emphasize the point.  Q shivered and sucked in a breath as 007 let the tip rest against his spine, just above his bound wrists.  He tapped it there, admitting to himself that he was _nearly_ annoyed enough to use it - nearly being the operative word.  He intended to keep his promise as best he could in regards to the hapless young merman’s wellbeing, no matter how annoyed he was at the heavy bruising he’d be sporting tomorrow.  

One cheek pressed against the deck and finally accepting that he wasn’t going to be moving towards the water anytime soon, Q’s eyes skated back to the small knife once before jerking away again, elegant throat convulsing once in a hard swallow.  He was actually quite easy on the eyes, and with Q’s tail out of Bond’s range of vision at the moment, it was almost possible to forget that Q wasn’t even human - he looked like an unfortunate shipwreck victim, shivering and wet, in need of some dry clothes and a hot mug of something.  It only took a second glance, however, to see the pale webbing between his fingers, the closed gills aligned along the column of his neck, and the smattering of scales that stretched up from his fish half.  For a moment, 007 was overridden by a sense of Q’s alienness, but then pity and sympathy washed all of that away, because ultimately, Q was simply an unfortunate prisoner - something that Bond had been countless times before, albeit rarely for long.  

“We’ll help you move him below-decks,” one of the crewman offered, and James was drawn out of his reverie to see three men approaching with a big net.  It was often used to lower cargo into the hold, and while Q wouldn’t like it one bit, it could lower him, too, without undue injury.  Nodding with a grunt, his mind already trying to think far enough ahead to formulate some sort of rescue plan without blowing his own cover, 007 got up and played along.  The second that Bond’s weight was no longer holding him down, James expected the merman to struggle again, but this time he was clearly occupied with James’s words still; all Q did was twist slightly, awkwardly tipping onto his side.  He looked ungainly and very literally out of his element, injured tail curling up towards his front with a slithering hiss of scales again the wood of the deck.  The redness still dripping from his two wounds looked stark and out-of-place against the gold-and-green of his sleek tail, as did the bruise already starting to blossom on the left side of his ribcage from where 007 had punched him.  Bond resisted the urge to wince in sympathy, having a fairly good idea of his own strength and just how much a bare-knuckled punch to one’s floating ribs could hurt.  The undercover agent continued to watch as his so-called comrades stepped forward to do as they’d promised, wrangling their unexpected catch into the net.  Q declined the option of making it easy on himself, and beneath a fabricated smile and bandying comments with the other sailors, 007 watched tensely and worriedly for signs of further injury.  Fortunately, as Q fought and thrashed, the crewmen only gave back as good as they got.  

When one man took a hard slap from the broad fin tipping the merman’s tail, it looked like things would finally get violent - the man was mad and Q was already half under the net, head and arms well enmeshed so that a hard snap of his tail was literally the only self-defense he had left.  To be fair, Q looked slightly startled that he’d landed a hit, and lay tangled on the deck with almost comically large eyes as his target regained his footing and cursed.  

‘ _What did I say, Q_ …?’ Bond lamented to himself even as his trained eyes tracked the twitch of muscles that meant the crewman was considering going for a weapon.   _Then_ James stepped forward.  “Remember, if we damage ’im before the captain can wring some answers out of ’im, _we’ll_ be the ones answerin’ some tough questions,” he growled, pretending edginess to hide the undercurrent of threat in his voice.  The reminder actually made a few men quail visibly, and the man Q had tail-slapped backed off - although he did deliver one sharp kick first.  Q yelped but didn’t say anything, and only wriggled reflexively as the net was finally dragged around all of him.  

His hazel eyes kept snapping back to James, and anyone there would think that it was just the merman being afraid of the blond-haired sea-wolf who had first taken him down - James, however, could read the subtle facets of different emotions within that.  Questions bubbled in those obviously intelligent eyes like a school of fish bobbing up to the surface of a crystalline stream.  007 crossed his arms and remained impassive, hiding his own feelings and reactions beneath a well-practiced mask of steel.  Clearly, Q couldn’t read anything beyond the front James was putting up for the vicious men around him, because those eyes of his grew more afraid - truly frightened - and he seemed to forget Bond’s good instructions again just as the net cinched tight.  The men holding the net were physically dragged and thrown about as Q put all of his strength into struggling, to the point where James had to step forward and take handfulls of the net, too.  Swearing and cursing as loudly as everyone else as they tried to weather the little storm Q had become, James also cursed inwardly, his heart giving a painful twist of regret as he realized that this was probably all caused by Q deciding that Bond was not going to keep his promise.  For a few minutes, the merman had been tentatively willing to believe that James was trying to keep him safe, but it was hard to hold onto such a slim belief when all of Bond’s body-language bespoke callousness and easy cruelty.  

Once again acting before things could escalate beyond his control, 007 moved a bit, grunting as one particularly strong twist of Q’s netted body made one of the men collide with Bond’s shoulder.  Struggling to keep his own footing, James freed up one hand and - with a silent apology - reached over to press his fingers through the net and right down onto Q’s bruised ribs.  The injury was fresh and the area tender, so James was not in the least surprised when the merman’s entire body stiffened and all of his escape attempts refocused on the simple task of wriggling out from under James’s hand.  His attempts were sorely curtailed by the net, but he was able to twist his body up enough to curl away; the pale arc of his back, crisscrossed by rope, bumped 007’s shins as Q weaseled away from the pain.  “Shit…!” Bond just barely heard Q hiss under his breath.  His reaction now told 007 that the young fellow wasn’t much used to pain, which made him wonder what the devil Q had been doing in the attack in the first place.  

“You got magic hands, Sterling,” one of the crewman applauded, looking pleased to no longer be wrestling against Q’s considerable strength.  

Looking up, Bond pasted a grin on his face, painting the leering quality of it onto the edges like a master artist applying wet acrylic.  “That’s what the ladies tell me,” he admitted shamelessly, to laughter all around.  Not waiting for someone else to take the lead this time, James gripped the net again in both hands and lifted.  He couldn’t carry Q and the net himself, but he stayed near the merman’s head, keeping an eye on things and listening to Q whimper and pant as he was moved and jarred.  His torn fin was pressed up against a knot in the netting at one point, making him cry out - the sound was so _human_ that 007 missed a step, mind filled with flashbacks to times that he’d taken targets to quiet places to make them talk.  Q wasn’t a target.  When Bond’s hand slipped on the net, it was entirely on purpose, because when he readjusted his grip, it shifted the mesh.  Q let out a whining sigh as the pain was lessened, the knot of tough rope no longer grinding against bloody skin.  

Q was lowered below-decks with as much care as could reasonably be expected.  By now, everyone was aware of the prisoner, and that Boss Tallent was with the captain now, no doubt discussing what to do about this stroke of luck.  Joining the prisoner in the belly of the ship, 007 thought grimly to himself that he’d have to act fast, because luck for Captain Silva likely meant interrogation and torture for this MI6 ally.  

No longer a danger to anyone or a flight-risk now that he was netted and lying on the floor surrounded by crates of smuggled goods, the merman was already well on his way to being ignored - for the moment, at least.  Most of the crew had other things to attend to, namely injuries from the attack.  Those who had helped move the merman now drifted off, although not before a few minutes of threatening and catcalling, to which Q replied by glaring, occasionally baring his teeth with a silent hiss, and shivering.  The whole while, 007 found himself a patch of shadows and waited, knowing how to disappear from notice.  Soon it was quiet and dark except for the light and noises that drifted down through the open hatch, and only then did 007 push off the wall he’d been leaning against.  Q startled when he belatedly caught sight of him, mouth falling open in surprise for a moment as he twisted as much as he could to face the oncoming man.  With the netting pushing all of his fins closed and constricting around his tail, Q couldn’t do much, and his hair looked ridiculous now that it was slowly drying and sticking up haphazardly through the ropes.  “Get back,” the merman ordered with as much bravado as steel, words shaky before he pursed his lips against any further words.  He settled in to merely watch 007 come forward, growing tenser by the second.  Q twitched in surprise when, still a meter away, the blue-eyed man dropped down to an easy, unthreatening crouch.  

For a moment, there was a long and uncomfortable silence.  Q was clearly trying to figure him out and prepare for danger, while 007 was just listening to make sure they were unwatched.  “Sorry about your ribs,” 007 finally said, rolling a hand briefly palm-up as if physically offering up the small apology.  

Clearly flummoxed, Q sagged back a little and said with reflexive politeness that was actually kind of cute, “Sorry about your face.”

Absently, 007 lifted up a hand to feel the parallel cuts on his cheek.  They’d stopped bleeding, and rusty redness flaked off on his fingertips.  Bond considered the bits of blood without rancor, even smiling a faint, jaded smile when he glanced up to meet Q’s eyes again.  The hazel gaze had turned deeply wary.  “You’ve gotten yourself into something of a situation,” he noted with the idleness of a man who’d been living in basically a nest-full of snakes for weeks.  

As before, the reaction that came back was automatic, like a young, not-quite-domesticated eyas snapping its beak at any fingers that came close.  “And you’ve got a markedly different accent whenever you’re talking to me versus with the crew.  What the hell is going on?”

It was both interesting and surprising to hear so much spine suddenly infused into the young merman’s voice, and 007 shifted a little at the whipcrack of authority.  Still, he answered calmly, “Everyone calls me Sterling here.  Of course, Richard Sterling is a crass, arguably bloodthirsty, uncultured criminal, so he wouldn’t be offering to take a look at your wounds and maybe even get you out of here.”

The roundabout sentence had Q’s eyes narrowing.  In the darker lighting below-decks, his hair and eyelashes were almost inky, his skin soft and pale except where the ropes were already starting to rub raw marks into it.  More scales were flaking off to glitter dully on the ground.  “So _are_ you offering?” Q asked cautiously.

“I am indeed,” smiled James - not Sterling.  Pushing the persona firmly aside, 007 took a risk and rocked forward onto his knees, bringing himself close enough to easily touch.  

Q was a skinny little thing, but lithe muscles played beneath the creamy tones of his skin, and corded for a moment as Bond’s nearness made Q second-guess his intentions.  However, 007’s oblique admittance of his secrets seemed to give Q reason to trust him, and instead of trying to flail or claw 007 through the net, Q merely watched with cautious eyes.  Kneeling into the lee of Q’s body, Bond was able to place a steadying hand on the merman’s smooth-skinned shoulder even as his other hand reached in the other direction, sliding down ranks of scales.  The merman shivered.  “Your companion - her name is Eve, right?” 007 made quiet conversation.

The first reply was a little gasp of surprise, and the joint under Bond’s hand twitched.  “You know her name?”

“I met her.  Briefly,” James admitted with his eyes on the cut that wound its way down Q’s tail.  It was about midway down the length of it, and only as long as Bond’s hand - and, fortunately, shallow.  Like the claw-marks on Bond’s face, it would stop bleeding soon, although infection was another matter.  “I also helped her get back off the deck just now, although my luck ran out with you.”

Another sigh, this time with more resignation and acceptance.  Bond glanced up to see Q finally rest his head on the floor with a soft, tired little thump.  “Fantastic.  Just bloody fantastic,” the merman grouched under his breath, then winced as he felt Bond’s fingers tugging at his lateral fin - the injured one.  One of Q’s arms unexpectedly managed to sneak free, and if Bond’s muscles weren’t starting to finally feel their bruises, he might have dodged the hand that came up and caught his left wrist.  As it was, he didn’t, but all Q did was squeeze without using his claws.  “Bloody, buggering-!” Q cut himself off, then continued again with a few curses clearly left out, “That hurts, you know!”  

“I’m trying to stretch it out so that I can see it,” Bond defended, even as he made a bit of room within the netting - finding enough play in it so that Q’s fin didn’t have to be trapped against his side.  Part of his attention was understandably waylaid by the strange feel of webbed fingers wrapped around his wrist, fingernails that tapered into kitten-sharp claws not all that far from his pulse.  “Your other cut doesn’t look too bad, but can you even swim with a hole through your fin?”

“It hardly matters if I won’t get a chance to even try,” Q muttered, then jerked and sucked in another breath as Bond tugged again.  This time, the fin unfurled, still draped in lengths of rope but now stretched out underneath them.  Bond idly fingered the supple, slick texture, unsurprised to find it as cool as the rest of Q.  Instead of continuing with his maudlin tone, Q switched topics, eyes focused on Bond’s leg as if to ignore his hurts, “So, I rather botched things today, didn’t I?”

“Attacking me was probably a bad idea.  To be fair, though, your friend Eve did the same.  If she’d attacked someone a bit slower than me, she might have made a kill and been back off the deck again with no one the wiser.”

Wary but curious eyes flicked up, and James turned his blue gaze back down with an arched eyebrow.  Q asked promptly, “What happened?”

For a moment, Bond’s training rebelled against the idea of giving out secrets, but then he realized that he _could_ with Q.  This was an ally.  It was a surprisingly lovely feeling.  “She tried and failed to harpoon me, and I repaid the favor by tripping her up a bit, so to speak.  But I pretended to hesitate at the last second, and she took advantage of that and got herself off the deck unharmed.”

Q swore quietly.  “I was on the other side of the ship and didn’t know she was safe.  I acted without thinking, or giving her more time.”

Although Q looked like he had a hole clean through his fin, it wasn’t a big tear, and 007 was tentatively hopeful about it not being too serious.  He gave Q’s shoulder a squeeze of reassurance without thinking, simply because Q looked so young, and that seemed the only natural thing to do.  “To be fair, if it had been anyone else but me, Eve could have been in dire straits already - fight are unpredictable in most cases.  Hesitating could have killed her, too.”

Belatedly, Q let go of Bond’s wrist, instead using the limb to pluck at the netting.  Claws like that were made for snagging things or maybe making thin cuts like the ones James was now sporting, not sawing through thick rope, but he unravelled a few threads anyway.  “Maybe, but now my own bloody recklessness is going to end with me strung up and gutted like a-!”  

The merman’s mini-rant was cut off by 007 purposefully moving to check on his bruised ribs, perhaps applying just a fraction more pressure than necessary, so that Q had to pause and gasp instead of finishing his morbid sentence.  “I hate you,” Q said, eyes tightly shut and those peculiar, sharpened incisors showing as he grimaced.  He sounded more petulant than sincere.  “You’re manipulative.”

“I’m a 00-agent,” Bond said, as if that explained it.  He gentled his hands and quickly checked to make sure he hadn’t broken anything.  Q’s skin was almost satiny-smooth, like regular human skin now that it was drying, and for a moment Bond stopped to consider a lone scale dotting Q’s side like a tiny, emerald freckle.  It grew as naturally from his skin as a feather from a bird’s wing.  “Now, I have some questions, and you’ll have to answer them fast, because I don’t know how much time we have,” 007 got down to business.

Q nodded, sucking in a quick breath that betrayed his fear.  Deeply curious despite himself, 007 stared at Q’s gills, noting the way that the skin around them twitched as if wanting to relax and pull in water instead of air.  The merman caught him looking, and instead of following Bond’s change in topic, noted, “You said that you met Eve, but you really don’t know much about my kind, do you?”

Bond made a face and looked away.  “I’m undercover to try and figure out how the hell Captain Silva is getting his ship past every patrol sent to catch him - including your people - but I honestly never expected to team up with one, so no,” he admitted with ill-grace.  

At least Q had the _good_ grace to look slightly rueful.  “I’ve thrown a wrench into things, haven’t I?”

Snagging a little ringlet of Q’s hair that was straining against the netting, 007 let it uncurl against his finger.  Q’s hair, he mused, had to be an absolute mess when it wasn’t flattened by water.  “That’s one way to put it.”

“Captain Silva is no doubt coming now to ask me some very unfriendly questions, like you told the crew?”

“Yes.  Probably in the most painful way possible.”

“Ah, well…”  Q swallowed roughly, but did a good job of hiding how afraid he was - it only showed in the flick of his eyes and the subtle tensing of his muscles, even as he huddled closer to the deck, and to 007.  “That’s definitely something I’d like to avoid, if at all possible,” he said with hard-won lightness.  Then he glanced up unexpectedly to meet Bond’s eyes again through the net, “I might have a pretty good reason why you should save me.”

Bond had already been planning on it, but hearing Q trying to give reasons for his survival made 007 at once rather defensive and warily interested.  Pale brows lowered over sapphire eyes.  Slowly, 007 asked, “And what might that be?”

“I might have figured out how your pirate-captain is avoiding all notice.  I might have also managed to circumvent it, although if I don’t get out of here, Silva’s going to find out before long anyway.  I really don’t hold much belief in my ability to keep my mouth shut under torture,” the young merman said as evenly as a man describing a slightly unpleasant spot of weather.  

~^~

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All righty then! Here's part 2 :) Unlike last year, it looks like I'll actually be finishing the Reverse Bang _on time_ , haha Art for this work is posted at the end of this chapter, as well as on [Tumblr.](http://00qreversebang.tumblr.com/post/137282868009/artwork-midnight-at-mermaid-lagoon-and-what)

 

 

~^~

In the end, Bond had to hand it to Silva: the man was cheating to avoid notice, yes, but much of his skills were legitimate.  It was only the merfolk that he couldn’t dodge with skills alone.  Q had explained that his kind possessed a kind of sonar, enabling them to detect objects at great distances - including ships like the _Wastrel_.  Along with their other preternatural abilities, it made the merfolk a tough lot and a decidedly robust last line of defense for British waters.  Captain Silva, however, had devised a way to flummox their sonar.  

“We’re not sure how he found out so much about our abilities,” Q had admitted, lips pursed and eyes troubled, “but Eve always suspected that he got his hands on one of our people.”

Regardless, the merfolk had been as confused as everyone else about Silva’s sudden elusive capabilities, until Q had come along and theorized what was happening - and how to fix the problem.  “My people aren’t builders, but… I’ve always liked putting things together, and designing things in my head, even if none of my peers understand.  So…” Q had said, with false modesty that Bond saw right through.

Fighting a smirk of his own, 007 had prompted obligingly, “So you built a machine to counter whatever Silva’s got?”

“Precisely.”  Q’s grin had been brilliant.  

The problem was, Q’s own machine was still in its prototype stages: it _did_ work, as evidenced by the attack today on the _Wastrel_ , but it was finicky and cantankerous, prone to making mistakes or not working if its maker wasn’t there to coddle it.  No one else, frankly, was qualified to fix it when it broke down.  At this point in the story, Q had looked deeply embarrassed, a rare flush of color staining his cheeks as he’d ducked his head and admitted just how foolish it was for him to come and try to rescue Eve.  With him captured, it was entirely possible that his invention was useless - and the merfolk were effectively blind again.  “That’s probably why they haven’t attacked the ship since my capture,” Q had sighed, “Even if they’re still keeping track of the _Wastrel_ by sight instead of sonar, they can’t risk my health by acting rashly.  Because even if my invention is working now, I doubt that it’ll behave for long, and if Silva kills me…  Well, everyone is back to square-one then.  My designs are very unique, and hard to replicate.”

007 digested this information, still kneeling next to the young merman’s netted form.  “What are you thinking?” Q asked, voice soft, as if he could hear the plans swirling through the 00-agent’s head and didn’t want to scatter them.  

“I’m thinking that my mission is over if I can blow up Silva’s anti-sonar contraption,” 007 said bluntly.  Excitement was already beginning to send subtle slivers of adrenaline through him, like fire along the lines of his bones.  He’d been tempted to just blow the _Wastrel_ itself out of the water from the moment he’d gotten on board, but lack of information had stayed his hand - he hadn’t known until now what in the world Captain Silva was even doing to make such a ghost of himself these days.  Now, knowing that it was essentially raw skill and one machine that could flummox merfolk, Bond could act.  “Do you have any idea where he keeps it?” Bond asked Q, on the off-chance that he had more information to offer.  Time was ticking, and someone would arrive any second to start interrogating Q for the very information that he was now giving Bond freely.  

“No,” Q shook his head, “But obviously he’d keep it somewhere on the ship where no one could tamper with it.  What are you going to do?”  More tufts of hair sprang up through the netting as Q cocked his head, looking grudgingly curious in a way that had James immediately smirking.  

“Firstly, I’m going to make sure that your kin get their inventor back,” 007 announced, ideas beginning to click into place in his head.  His plan was far from complicated, so far as plans went, but that was almost always for the best.  “Eve looks like the kind who’d kill me if I didn’t see you safely returned.”

“She is rather protective,” Q agreed even as he jumped - Bond had produced a knife out of nowhere, metallic and bright.  “You’re more than a little terrifying.  Has anyone ever told you that?”  Despite his words, however, the young merman only twitched a tiny bit as that knife came towards the ropes near his upper body.  “That’s not even the knife you threatened me with earlier, or the one you lost up on-deck.  How many of those bloody things do you have?”

Talking freely to someone without having to worry about being Richard Sterling was like a breath of fresh air for James, but there was also something uniquely interesting about talking to Q - who seemed so full of the unexpected.  Regular people got boring very quickly to agents who were used to reading expression and predicting actions from body-language, but Q was like a new book in a different language.  While he was clearly afraid, he was also calm and brash by turns, and possessed a loyal streak that had gotten him into trouble in the same way that James’s own actions sporadically did.  007 couldn’t bring himself to fault Q for endangering himself for Eve’s sake, because in Bond’s experience, people that faithful to their friends were hard to find and worth more than gold.  “In my line of work, more knives are better,” he finally answered, trying on a charming smile.

As the sawing of the knife parted strands over Q’s shoulder, the merman held very, very still but nonetheless quipped back, “Your line of work as a pirate or as a spy?”

More netting was sundered, moving from Q’s shoulder upwards.  Bond lifted his free hand to pull aside what he could, fingers rustling over strands of hair that were dusted with salt now that the water had dried, but still oddly pleasant to touch.  “Both,” 007 retorted, amused by Q’s increasing sense of humor, which had a dry flavor to it that was oddly endearing.  “Come on, let’s see if I can get you at least out of the netting.  We’re running out of time”

Q was clumsy, of course, since at least half of his body was in no way made for terrestrial locomotion, but once a big enough hole was cut in the netting and with 007 standing up and then grabbing him under his arms, Q was soon slipped free.  007 didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting Q up onto the deck, even if everyone was nice enough to turn and look away while he did it, unfortunately.  

A whimper of pain was muffled by Q biting his lip, but at least he didn’t trail any new blood around as 007 dragged him over to where he would lean against some crates.  Tucking his tail in and folding it into a delicate ‘S’-shape in front of him, Q managed to sit up quite naturally.  If a blanket were to be tossed over his lap, he’d pass for a normal human.  Q touched his wounded fin gingerly, and for a brief moment it looked like he might break down a little - but then he clenched his jaw and raised his head, hair now in complete disarray like a dark cloud on his head.  “Okay, what next?”

“Next,” 007 said, even as he began to hear noise by the hatch, “you’re going to have to trust me again.”

~^~

The only piece of information missing in Bond’s plan was exactly where the anti-sonar device was located.  That would have slowed most people, but now that Bond knew it was at least on the ship and almost solely responsible for negating everyone’s ability to track Captain Silva, the only real problem was getting access to the areas where he wanted to put explosives.  In all honesty, James hadn’t had enough trust from the crew to do so until now, so even if Q had mystically dropped into his life before now, Bond wouldn’t have been able to do much with the information.  It also took time to secretly amass explosives.  

Now, however, with his Richard Sterling persona fully settled on his shoulders and fully integrated with the crew as well, 007 moved easily on the ship.  The captain’s quarters were, of course, of limits, but that was okay - if Bond sunk the whole ship, he figured that that would do the job.  It hadn’t taken Bond long to sniff out the Wastrel’s supplies of anything remotely incendiary.  All 00-agents were practically trained to hone in on such things, either for their own personal procurement or for safety reasons.  What Bond would have liked to do at a more leisurely pace was set everything up, but unfortunately, while Q had also given him valuable information, he’d also moved up the time-table - 007 couldn’t waste time.  He felt a prickle of fear for someone other than himself rise up between his shoulder-blades, remembering for the umpteenth time that Q was right now probably having an audience with Silva, and every second James wasted as a second in which the hapless merman could be seriously hurt.  Despite what Q had said about being unable to hold strong under torture, James feared that Q was in fact a lot more stubborn than he let on, and would keep his mouth stubbornly shut when singing would in fact keep him safer.  What the merman would say willingly, Silva or his men would happily beat out of him, and that thought had Bond’s teeth clenching and something dangerous rising up behind his eyes.  A few crewmembers abruptly changed course so as not to intercept him, unwilling to so much as guess at what had put ‘Sterling’ in such a foul mood.  It took a few more long strides before Bond was able to smooth out his expression again, making him think of an octopus changing colors, blending in.  

Smiling, exchanging friendly words or crude comments, and dodging assigned tasks like a pro, 007 played at normalcy and got to work.

The one silver lining he could see in this situation was that Q could breathe underwater.  Therefore, there was no need for Bond to second-guess sinking the ship, just so long as that section of the hold remained reasonably intact.  Everyone else could drown for all James cared - in that way, his Sterling  and Bond personas were equally capable of callousness - and Q had assured him that his kin could get him out of the ship later if it sunk with him in it.  As Bond began to quietly and quickly rig a makeshift bomb that would blow a hole in the hull below the waterline, he recalled that he himself was a more tricky case, because Bond didn’t have gills or a squad of friends and family who did.  Freezing for a moment as he heard footsteps pass by his location - not close enough to find him, and fading away again quickly - 007 rapidly went over possible escape plans in his head.  He had an emergency beacon on his person that was designed to let MI6 hone in on him if activated, but he’d long-since found out that Silva’s device blocked it’s transmission.  If Bond sunk the ship, he had to hope that he could find something to stay afloat on long enough for MI6 to find and collect him, which would still take awhile, even after Silva’s gadget was destroyed.

And if it wasn’t immediately destroyed in the explosion, but instead encapsulated in the ship and sunk, it would take significantly longer.  Bond didn’t know the range on the thing.  

Briefly, as he finished setting up a rough but dependable detonator that he’d used before in tight spots, Bond considered the life-boats, but ultimately, his seek-and-destroy instincts won out.  He’d do his best to sink them, too, because he knew the backgrounds of all the men and women on-board - none of them deserved saving.  Silva had an uncanny skill for surrounding himself with the depraved, lethal, and amoral.

Bond didn’t like to think about what that said about himself, since he’d managed to get signed on.  

To the average person, there wouldn’t have been enough material handy to make a bomb capable of blasting a hole through the side of a ship.  The average person, in Bond’s experience, was not very creative.  Taking the last of his scavenged odds-and-ends and connecting them to the nasty piece of incendiary work he’d just done, 007 began to likewise create a timer.  He prefered fuses - a packet of matches was an easy, simple way to delay a blast - but fuses implied smoke, and any sailor was bred and born to notice (and put out) smoke or fire on a ship.  The inherent dampness of older ships like this also hindered him.  Briefly, 007 glowered at his severely depleted options, aware that he had something of a martyr complex, but nothing severe enough to let him forego a timer and just blow the thing.  Rearranging his plan and perfecting his bomb took time, and every second ticked by in his head.  

Seconds in which someone could wonder where Sterling was, and grow suspicious.  Seconds in which people could find out what he was doing and mess up everything.  Seconds in which Q was stuck with Silva.  It unsettled Bond a little that that last one held more weight with him than the previous two, goading him to work faster and finish the job.  

‘ _It should be illegal, how fast I can do this_ ,’ 007 mused jadedly to himself as the last pieces were pushed into place, creating a massive hulk of destruction hidden behind some oblivious crates, nestled against the wall it was going to destroy.  He almost laughed - a small, bland, utterly cold laugh - when he realized it _was_ illegal, like a large proportion of his skillset.  Despite his heavy background in all things illicit and dangerous, he still held his breath and hesitated somewhere deep in his soul as he eyed the make-shift timer, knowing that once he turned it on, the metaphorical hourglass would be turned and start counting down grains of sand to utter chaos.  It wouldn’t count down for long.

007 started it anyway.  The knowledge that he had only minutes now, and that there was no turning back, flushed his system with adrenalin as if someone had injected fire right into his veins.  He was on his feet in seconds, breathing picking up, heart following suit, mind already racing to lay his plan out before his mind’s-eye like tiles on an ancient board-game - a game of spies, the second-oldest profession, played almost from the first moment that man had learned to trick his neighbor.  It was a thrill to realize that he was playing that old game, and a terrifying rush to know that he was just playing out the motions of pawns and knights that had spied and killed before him.  

And died.  

As happened all too often, 007 plans to get above-deck before his bomb flooded everything below were dashed as he turned a corner and ran right into Boss Tallent.  As James recoiled, scrambling to collect himself with a countdown shrieking in his head, the First Mate’s eyes narrowed - the man was too canny for his own good.  “And what’s got you racing around, eh, Sterling?”

It wasn’t the suspicious question that worried James so much as the way the other man crossed his arms and braced his feet, blocking Bond’s path like a bulwark.  

Bond wished he’d had the luxury of setting a longer timer.  It would have saved him the ruckus he was about to cause right now.  His only answer was a brief but heartfelt growl of annoyance, and then - while Tallent’s eyes widened - the Richard Sterling persona of the good crewman and general vagabond was thrown aside in favor of the trained and primed assassin, leaping forward with a knife already appearing like magic in his hand.  

“I don’t have time for this,” Bond growled even as the first blood sprayed.  

~^~

Silhouettes blocked the light coming down into the hold.  Against his stack of crates, the merman tensed, tail sliding uneasily over the remnants of netting still strewn within his vicinity.  Three shapes came towards him, eventually distinguishing themselves once the light was no longer behind them.  Q reflected, with a wild sort of amusement, that it was ironic how Bond had stepped out of the darkness and these three out of the light, and yet it was the latter that struck Q as black-hearted.  

Raoul Silva.  It could be no other man, for while it was hard to physically catch him, his picture was everywhere - a wanted man with a too-broad smile and a cocksure gaze.  Right now, that smile and that gaze was on Q, mimicking an amused expression but instead coming across as crocodile cold.  The crocodile’s jaw opened, emitting an almost melodious voice that played upon the silence, “Well, well, well, you’ve been very naughty while left unattended, haven’t you?  I’ll admit, I’m impressed that you got through the netting.”  Pale eyes skimmed over the sundered rope briefly before coming back to the merman, focusing to razor sharpness as if he intended to flay Q’s skin away just to find the truth beneath.  Trapped with nowhere to go, the young merperson tried to school his breathing and at least fake calmness, even as each breath made his nostrils flare, and his knuckles were creaking with how tightly he was fisting his hands.  Silva’s head cocked as her noticed, eyes sliding like an oily touch down Q’s arm to his rigid hands.  He tsked.  “You’ll hurt yourself.  Open up your hand, darling, and let me see those claws of yours before you put them through your palm.”

Behind Silva, his two companions - a man and a woman, both leather-skinned from the sun and hard-looking - shifted their weight slightly, making it impossible to miss the guns and knives they carried within easy reach.  The unspoken threat was enough to make Q swallow, cold to his core in a way that no ocean could match, and he slowly opened one hand as if someone were puppeting his strings.  Silva watched with rapt, sick fascination as webbed fingers uncurled, revealing a bloodied palm that had indeed suffered the tips of pearly little claws.  Even Q winced and shivered inside as he fixated on the redness, wondering how he’d done all that without actually noticing.  Even now, the pain felt distant and blunted, like there was a wall stretched out between his pain-sensors and his brain.  While Silva clucked his tongue again like the proverbial mother-hen, Q realized that it was utter fear that was holding the pain at bay.  He glanced back up, finding those canted eyes on him, and filled with a terrifying level of amusement.  

“What a mess.  Really, is that a way for a guest to behave?” Silva chided while his two crew-members looked on.  They must have been used to the man’s sense of humor, although how in the world someone could get used to that, Q didn’t know and didn’t want to find out.  He curled his tail in a little tighter, the scales scraping dryly now that most of the water had evaporated or dripped off him.  It was unsettling how Silva’s eyes followed the movement with keen alertness.  

Q swallowed, throat rasping as he found his voice with as much steadiness as he could muster, “Am I a guest?”

Silva’s first response was the laugh, loudly and explosively.  “So he _can_ talk!” Silva cheered, as if he hadn’t known this before.  Big hands clapped delightedly.  “Well then, this is splendid.  We can have a proper conversation now.”  He dragged up a nearby crate, bringing it too close for Q’s liking, so that the man’s boots nearly trod on Q’s tail as the captain sat.  Silva kept smiling at him as he rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on folded hands, but his eyes were full of the deadliest sort of challenge - being this close put Silva within range of not only Q’s rather powerful tail, but also his clawed hands.  That look, however, said that any sort of attack would be ill-advised.  Actually, it looked like it would be welcome, but only because Silva’s flat, cold gaze promised retribution of the most vicious order.  Q shivered, pushing his back against the wood slats behind him, and dropped his eyes.  One of his fists was still clenched, and began to drip blood out the side.  “So, let’s start: what’s your name?”

Silva paused to watch expectantly, but as the silence stretched and the merman continued to stubbornly say nothing, the captain’s smile fell into a thunderous frown.  “Now, now, my aquatic friend, let’s continue this like civil people, hm?  Or as civil as we can be when only one of us is a person.”  Silva tilted his head with a condescending sort of gentleness that had Q bristling, his lateral fins flaring out minutely from his sides until pain drove them back in.  “After all, my friends here get to step in as soon as things get _un_ civilized…”

As if drawn by the lure of the hanging sentence, Q’s eyes widened and darted past Silva’s shoulder, latching onto the two crew-members again.  They hadn’t moved, but both had their hands on one weapon or another, and suddenly Q felt like he couldn’t breathe.  Heart stuttering in his chest, the dark-haired young man darted fearful hazel eyes back to Silva, whispering with what air he was able to drag in, “Q.”  He swallowed and tried again, just as soft, “My name is Q.”

“Delightful,” Silva applauded as if the merperson had done a trick.  Some of Q’s bravery returned with the help of his annoyance - the spark of temper lit a small fire to burn back the fear.  “And I imagine you know who I am?  Hmm?  Come on now, Q, no need to be shy now.  Very shortly there shall be no secrets between us anyway, so you may as well speak up.”

The threat slid in like poison carried on honey, and it was impossible to sublimate the shiver that crawled down Q’s back.  The creepy-crawly feeling spread across Q’s skin as Silva reached forward, idly and languidly, until he could brush his fingertips down the side of Q’s tail.  This elicited a massive flinch as the mermand tried to tuck it in tighter, out of the way, and for a flash of a second all he could think was that this felt nothing like when Bond had touched him - and Bond had been wielding a knife half the time.  Somehow, even barehanded, Silva radiated more imminent threat.  

“Such a loss,” Silva said as if musing, touching green-hued scales even as his smile became transparent - like a sheen of ice over a piranha tank.  His eyes flicked up to meet Q’s like he wanted to bore into his head.  “You know, from the waist up, you’re quite a catch, if you don’t mind the unintended pun.  Everyone writes fairy tales about the women of your kind, but I think that a gorgeous face like yours would be an attraction to anyone.  I’d really rather not kill you.”  Q quivered and squeezed his eyes shut as Silver’s wandering hand reached his damaged lateral fin, pulling it out despite the pain, and pinching at its flexible edge.  “Let’s make a deal - you tell me what I want to know, and instead of, say, letting my two companions skin you slowly, I’ll take you back with me.”  Silva’s smile split his face, and was full of winsome charm.  “Surely you’ll agree that it’s not a bad deal, living your life out in a nice, spacious tank on land - I can’t let you go, after all, obviously.  Not after you somehow found me.”  The smile splintered a little, but the captain caught the piece, leaving a rather gruesome expression on his face that was cold like frosted glass.  His hand closed, painfully fisting a portion of Q’s fin.  “Which leads me to my first question, Q dear.  How _did_ you and your fishy friends find me?”

From somewhere deep inside, Q found another reservoir of bravery, and pursed his lips instead of answering.  His big hazel eyes narrowed pugnaciously, and despite his slim physique, he managed to look as immovable as a bulldog.  Silva’s smile frosted over a little more.  

“You’re a clever boy, Q, but a clever boy regardless of species should know to answer the questions of his betters,” Silva warned.  Still gripping Q’s fin, he inched his thumb forward until it pressed against the edge of the puncture wound.  Q hissed, baring his teeth for a second, but regained his composure quickly.  The only signs of his growing panic were his quickened breathing and the fixed brightness of his eyes.  His left hand still hadn’t unclenched.  “Things are going to get very, very unpleasant for you very shortly.  Believe me when I say that we’d all much prefer it if you just talked on your own.”

“Why?” Q blurted, sharp and brittle, “Because you couldn’t show me off in a fishtank if you cut me up first?”

Instead of being put off, Silva’s smile merely brightened again.  He let go of Q’s fin to reach behind him beckoning, and both of his underlings stepped forward, mincing over the net even as the woman reached to hand a knife to her captain.  “Precisely,” said Silva with oozing pleasantness as his hand closed around the hilt.  So much for his companions handling the uncivilized part of the interrogation.  

Q’s left hand spasmed, almost unclenching, but instead of reacting he merely clenched his jaw and watched the knife with frightened, stubborn eyes.  

Then, a massive **_BOOM_** rocked the ship.  

Silva’s look of shock was a glorious sight to behold, and the man standing behind him actually lost his footing and fell down, tangling in the net.  Q, more relieved than shocked, muttered, “About bloody time,” even as he lunged forward and finally opened his left hand, revealing a tiny switchblade.  He snapped the knife out in a split second, the edge sharper and keener than even his own little claws, which had been digging into his palm and even scoring the knife’s casing.  Bond clearly cared for his weapons.  With barely two swift slashes, a seemingly random rope was parted - a rope that Bond had attached to something deeper within the darkness of the cargo hold.  This set off a swift series of chain reactions, ending with the net on the floor suddenly being dragged to one side.  Before Silva and his two companions could recover, the mesh of ropes beneath their feet had surged sideways, inevitably tangling up around their boots and dragging everyone unceremoniously to the floor.  

“I won’t leave you helpless, Q,” Bond had promised, and Q let out something that was half a laugh and half a sob of relief as he watched the pirates fall flailing in a heap.  The trap had been set as a very temporary diversion for anyone who was near Q, because the merman couldn’t move, but anyone approaching him had to walk over the net or else take the time to bundle it all away - which Bond had bet no one would do immediately.  The various pulleys in use in the hold were easy repurposed for a quick bit of mischief, and now Q had some breathing room.  “It will only buy you a few moments,” Bond had warned, looking Q in the eyes with a serious, grim blue gaze even as he tied the last knot and tried to track the approaching danger.  He was cutting it close, but wouldn’t leave until he’d given his impromptu ally some hope to hold onto.  “As much as I’d like to say that this will trap them, that only works in movies, but this should at least pull the rug out from under them, metaphorically speaking.”  He’d then produced another knife seemingly out of nowhere, bladed folded away and its casing a soft wood-grain smoothed with much use.  Bond’s other hand had grabbed Q’s wrist, fearless of his sharp little nails as he dragged it forward to drop the switchblade into his webbed palm.  “Cut _that_ rope.  And if that doesn’t work, cut anything within reach,” were his last simple instruction.  

Then, seemingly on reflex, the undercover agent had reached forward to tousle Q’s hair before disappearing again to complete his own part of the plan.  

Listening to the groan of a straining hull, the scream of panicked  voices, and encroaching rush of water, Q sighed and closed his eyes for a second in bliss.  It sounded like Bond’s part of the plan had worked.  Opening his eyes again and forcing himself to be proactive, Q placed the knife-blade carefully between his teeth, and then used his arms to awkwardly drag himself as far away from Silva as he could.  It was clumsy business for someone made to be aquatic, but the three humans were still fighting with the tangled mess of netting by the time Q dragged himself into the shadows behind another set of crates, and by then, there was definitely a layer of water on the floor and the boat was tilting.  

It was that water creeping up around his splayed fingers that put the extra steel in Q’s spine that he needed, and allowed him to stop retreating, and turn back.  Someone was standing up from the netting, his furious voice denoting him instantly as an irate Raoul Silva.  He was bellowing loudly enough now that those above-decks probably could have heard him, if they weren’t yelling themselves.  The level of chaos was mounting at an exponential rate, but Q knew that he could still die if he didn’t _act_.

 So, taking deep breaths, he dropped the knife.  It landed with a little splash, and Q watched as the rising tide of water washed his blood off the little weapon, returning it to the gleaming cleanliness that it had had when Bond had first handed it over.  

Then, focusing and reminding himself what Silva had been about to do to him, Q gathered together the water around him like an invisible hand gathering sand.  It began to pool and rise up to his will, balking his control at first before steadying.  Floating like a boat instead of sinking like a stone, the switchblade - still open and extended like a mercury fang, wet and wicked - rose up with the miniature tide Q was calling.  

Tears of frustration and helpless fury unexpectedly stinging his eyes, Q focused on his abilities, and with the water as his hands, turned the knife until it homed in on Silva’s towering shape like a compass-needle seeking north.  

Silva stopped yelling suddenly, as if sensing something - or realizing that he’d forgotten something.  Some _one_.  Someone he’d foolishly deemed as less than human while also managing to forget that merfolk were superhuman, in their own select ways.  Unable to drag himself more than a few feet on dry land, and helpless out of water, Q had become deadly again the second Bond blew a hole in the ship and let the ocean in.  

One more cry of rage, pain, and utter shock echoed through the hull along with a gurgling rush of water.  

~^~

“ _Damn_.”

Bond rolled over, feeling pain sear up his right arm.  As he moved, he smeared blood across the floor that was quickly scoured away by a rising tide of water.  The knife that had done the deed was still in Boss Tallent’s hand, but the hand wasn’t moving, and neither was the rest of the man, even as the water rose up high enough to lap over his open mouth and nose.  There was an awful lot more red staining the water over there, a testament to Bond’s bitter victory.  

Sloshing water already as he moved, 007 dragged himself up dizzily, touching the back of his head with a hiss and another curse.  His fingertips came away bloody, but it was nothing compared to the mess dyeing the ripped sleeve of his shirt.  Truly cursing like the sailor he was impersonating, 007 came to the conclusion that the gash running from his shoulder to his elbow was going to be a problem.  The head-wound didn’t help, and 007 hunched his shoulders with a grimace as he felt hot wetness already trickling down as far as his shirt-collar.  If only he could have run into anyone other than Tallent…!  The man was big and dangerous.  Bond had had the element of surprise, but in close-quarters, he'd still been hard-pressed to take the First Mate down.  And then the bomb had gone off, with Bond and Tallent nowhere near far enough away to be safe.  It was up for debate what had killed the larger man: 007’s knife or the bits of shrapnel from the walls flying outwards in shreds.  

Feeling massive bruising and possibly broken ribs down his right side, 007 admitted that he was in a bad way, even as he noted the water - up to his knees now and rising fast.  The ship was sinking, stealing away any opportunity to feel sorry for himself or nurse his wounds.  Since there weren’t even people splashing down past him to inspect the damage, he figured the everyone else knew it, and he was the only idiot still waiting below-decks while the ship turned into a watery coffin.  That mental image whipped 007 into motion, and with his lacerated right arm tucked against his busted ribs, he sloshed through the water, which had already closed entirely over Boss Tallent’s body.  

When the ship tilted suddenly, guzzling enough water to make her as tipsy as a drunk, 007 was slammed roughly into the wall, making him snarl and cry out before he could keep going.  He had a ladder to make it up, still, and the salty tide was slowing him down and sucking at his legs.  Thinking of Q, he was swamped momentarily with worry, wondering if the strange, brave little genius was going to make it out of this one.  That atypical worry for someone other than himself clung to James until he finally, laboriously made it to the aforementioned ladder, and then the pain of using his arm dragged his focus back.  By the time he made it above-decks, he had a dizziness in his head that wouldn’t leave him, and the entire back of his head and neck felt warm with blood, to say nothing of the incarnadined mess his arm had become.  Swaying, he saw people running for lifeboats, apparently deciding that bailing out the ship was out of the question - which it definitely was.  007 might have been working with subpar materials, but when he made bombs, he made them _well_.  There would be no recovery from the hole he’d just made, but he felt a bit cheated that he wouldn’t have the opportunity to put holes in the life-boats.  Right now, he counted himself lucky to be standing, even as the ship listed further and made his feet skid and slide on the deck.  

Flickers of plans flitted before his eyes - the urge to attack and kill.  It was a knee-jerk reaction, born from training and adrenalin, and resistant to logic, which was telling him that he was almost unconscious from blood-loss and presently out of weapons.  The latter he could fix easily enough, with every conceivable target carrying accessible knives and guns, but the former was doing terrible things to Bond’s vision and balance, as nausea crawled up his gut and throat.  With the ship lurching at a sharper and steeper angle beneath his feet and groaning like a dying monster, 007 spared a moment to look around and wonder if Silva was escaping, too, but caught sight of something else instead.  

One of the life-boats had already made it into the water, veritably packed with anxious crewmen.  These were likely the fastest and meanest ones, capable and willing to beat others back from their escape route, and Bond was entirely sure he saw two men dead on the deck.  Instead of cries of relief and triumph from the boat, however, there was even more panic than what was coming from the sinking _Wastrel_ herself - because the water was starting to froth.  While 007 watched, his focus returning reluctantly to watch the scene, he saw Q’s kinsfolk making a second appearance, throwing caution to the wind apparently as they unrestrainedly attacked the doomed life-boat.  A few other pirates had jumped overboard, and their fate was no less grim.  Sharks would have been kinder.  Suddenly, with a sort of exhausted resignation, 007 realized that there might be no escaping for him this time.  Logical thought was failing him along with his strength, but it didn’t take much deductive reasoning to see how easily he’d be mistaken for the pirates he’d been hiding amongst for weeks on end.  Silva had kidnapped Q; now Q’s kin were exacting revenge.  

Then the ship lurched as her prow sank sharply, putting the deck quite suddenly at an impossible angle, which took all decisions right out of 007’s hands.  Along with everyone else on deck - a few of which had paused to stare at his bloodied condition, wondering what the hell had happened to him - James was sent skidding off the deck and into the cold embrace of the ocean.  

His last thought before the concussive waves closed over his head was, oddly enough, that he hoped Q had made it out.  He found that funny, because Q’s domain was the water, and water was the element now rushing up to claim everyone and everything about this entire mission.  

~^~

The heat of blood on the wrong side of one’s skin was a sensation that went beyond the physical - it was a psychological trigger, setting off warnings because there was nothing quite so wrong as bleeding.  Even after all of his years as a 00-agent, Bond hadn’t ever gotten used to that burning sensation of heart-hot blood dripping down his skin, and doubted he ever would.  

Perhaps that was now why it felt so eerie and strange to know that he was bleeding profusely, but not to feel that trickling, warning heat.  

There was nothing but ocean all around him, except for his sense of the hulk at his back - the mass of material that had once been a ship.  His wounds burned from the saltwater, but it felt like the ocean was lapping up the blood, sucking it away and diluting it before 007 could even properly miss it.  The greediness of that anthropomorphization was what finally snapped 007 into further awareness again, ironically.  Unreasonably irked that he was spilling blood for a body of water that didn’t care, 007 jerked in the water, his slow downward descent stopped by a sharp lash of his legs.  His eyes opened, squinting against the saltiness and unable to see clearly but knowing what he needed - the light.  The surface.   _Air_.  

The water muffled everything, but not the general sense of danger and mayhem.  007 could see clearly enough to be aware of shapes in the water, dark below like shadows, or silhouetted above like inky, deathly angels.  Of course, the fast shapes were angry merfolk, and the slow shapes were generally the pirates unlucky enough to be caught by them.  Even as Bond’s shoulder screamed and buckled, his arm refusing to stroke through the water and drag his weight, he was aware of a shape zipping past him - en route, he was struck by what was very probably a tail, and sent tumbling.  The last of his strength was used up somewhere in the spin, and he struggled against the desire to gasp for air and swallow sea-water.  ‘ _Damn it all_ ,’ he had the coherence to growl frustratedly in his head, even as he felt acceptance slide over him.  He could still see the bright day far above him, the sunlight splintered by the water as it reached for him, but Bond was a bloody long ways away, and those ethereal, life-giving rays would never reach him.  

The long gash down James’s arm stopped telegraphy pain when he stopped moving it, and as he stopped moving the rest of himself, the only thing impeding the encroaching, lethal sense of _peace_ was the agony of his lungs demanding air.  Even with death dragging him down, he was too stubborn to open his mouth.  

Until he was startled by a shadow suddenly cutting out the light above him.  

Pale skin and gold-flecked green eyes; a corona of black, made of hair that 007 knew to be surprisingly soft even as it dried full of salt.  In the second that Bond tried to compute what to do with the sight of Q hovering over him, Q’s hands shot out and grabbed his face.  There was a frozen moment where Bond caught a glimpse of Q’s gills - flared now, taking in water, using it in a way that human lungs couldn’t - and then he had a face-full of Q and a mouth over his.  The decision to open his mouth was roughly taken out of his control as Q’s thumbs dug into the hinge of his jaw, and when that didn’t work, Q nipped James’s lips hard enough to actually surprise him.  The combination of physical force and shock parted Bond’s clenched teeth, and the dying 00-agent tensed in preparation for water rushing into his mouth and lungs.  

He got air instead.  

It was as much a surprise as everything else, and 007 jerked, but couldn’t pull away from Q’s mouth thanks to the webbed hands now firmly gripping his skull.  After the first forced inhale, 007’s body accepted what was happening and relaxed, relief pouring through him like a drug injected right into his bloodstream, letting all of his taxed muscles finally go limp.  At some point, his hands had found their way to Q’s arms, clutching at cool, satin-skinned biceps as he just hung in the water and breathed with Q for a bit.  It was like time hung with them, at a standstill.  

Q pulled away abruptly, and James ended up with some water in his mouth before Q clamped a hand over the lower half of his face.  Swallowing the impromptu mouthful, 007 sublimated his body’s drive to inhale again, because that choice had been very much eliminated - even if he’d wanted to end it all with a huge gasp of seawater, Q was covering his mouth and nose, the webbing between his fingers entirely capable of smothering all efforts at breathing.  If 007 had had more energy and less gratitude, he might have been annoyed.  Instead, he opened his eyes again, and froze at the sight around him.  

Dead bodies floated in the water, along with debris that had once been a few life-boats.  Besides that, there were merfolk, all sleek lines and barracuda tempers, their every move telegraphing threat in a way that Bond was trained to see.  Q was holding his position (and Bond’s) with slow undulations of his tail, but was also watching his own people with trepidation even as he kept hold of his damaged, weakening, and decidedly terrestrial companion.  

Q looked angry, and where Bond still held onto his arms, he could feel how tense he was as he looked from face to face.  Bond was shocked to briefly feel a tail - Q’s tail - curl around his legs, before the merman seemed to remember that he needed that for swimming or they’d drift.  When Q tried to pull them closer to the surface, and thus the oxygen that Bond was already craving again, there was a flurry of motion as their way was blocked.  007 wanted to get angry about that, but he was, quite frankly, too tired.  He could see how his blood was pinking the water around him, and had no idea how much he’d lost, but he couldn’t imagine he had much left to fight with.  He definitely didn’t have it in him to wade through merfolk politics, and rolled his eyes in a way that he half-hoped telegraphed how ready he was to just go to sleep now.  Waking up again was optional.  

However, when 007 opened his eyes again, it was to see Q’s stubborn, troubled face turned towards him again, with an expression that Bond knew surprisingly well: he’d seen in it the mirror a few times, and generally meant that he was about to do something reckless and stupid.  

Right there, in front of all a whole angry squadron of merfolk, Bond’s personal merman removed his hand, crushed his lips to Bond’s again, and exhaled air into his mouth without a second’s hesitation.  

Bond closed his eyes and savored the sensation of breathing again, while idly noting that if he survived this, no one would believe him - and if he died, it would be one of the more interesting ends he’d ever contemplated.  As a knee-jerk reaction, his mouth moved a little, his lips sliding against cooler ones, and then almost laughed when Q jerked in surprise.  Blood-loss was making him feel dazed and light-headed, but at least it added humor to the situation, even before he slitted his eyes open to see another face… a smiling face.  A familiar face.  Mocha-skinned and radiant with her hair fanned out around her, Eve smirked openly as she eyed Bond over Q’s shoulder, and then moved forward with slow beats of her fanned tail.  

It made something squeeze in James’s chest to see the way Q immediately tensed, defensiveness radiating from him in this silent, underwater world.  This time, when the merman separated them, James was ready and didn’t pull in water, although he tolerated the hand that went almost protectively over his mouth and nose.  Likewise, he didn’t do anything to avoid the lean body that pulled close to his, that damaged fin of Q’s fluttering against his trouser-leg every other heartbeat like a moth against a windowpane.  

Q and Eve exchanged a look, a whole novella of emotions amassed between them: worry, relief, protectiveness, defiance, assurance, warmth, amusement, and all the shades in between.  It ended with Q relaxing (one arm around Bond’s back now, clasped tight enough to make Bond’s  busted ribs twinge) and Eve smiling, although the look she shot Bond started out sardonic before slipping quickly into one of worry.  ‘ _Do I look that bad off_?’ he wondered, even as he felt his eyelids growing heavy and his lungs start to crave air again.  The idea of asking for another breath of borrowed air didn’t cross his rapidly clouding mind, but at least he kept his eyes open long enough to notice Eve turning to the rest of their irate company, gesturing animatedly.  

Consciousness drifted.  

Sometimes there was a pain in his arm, something tight constricting it; pressure on the back of his skull like a nail being driven right through.  Sometimes a plethora of hands on him, enough to make his skin crawl, even if the lips that pressed against his always felt indescribably familiar and welcome.  They always brought the sun with them.  When 007 registered the actual sun and actual air, it felt strange and wrong, and he would have coughed and thrashed had not so many people been holding him.  It was like being bound up in limbs, but at least those limbs kept him above water as he breathed… in… out… in… out… slowly, even as he felt water cascade off his face and wet bandages of some sort drag at wounded skin.  The pain of broken ribs made him cry out, a rough roar that he was able to hear now without water deafening him.  

“Easy, James, easy…” he thought he heard, a worried voice, just a few pitches higher than his, as familiar as the lapping of the waves but as novel as the sensation of breathing second-hand air.  As his head hung, waves still lapping at his shoulders, he felt something familiar and twisted his cheek against it, feeling a tangled mass of damp, thick hair.  

“Q,” he rasped, on the edge of consciousness like someone at a great precipice.  

He caught impressions of a bright, hazel eye and a shaky smile, and a webbed but lacerated palm near his face.  “Yes.  Yes, that’s me.  Just hold on for a little longer, James, and…”

But Bond couldn’t hear him anymore.

~^~

“Mr. Bond.  How nice of you to return to the land of the living.”

Of all things to wake up to, M’s clipped tones weren’t on 007’s list of favorites, but considering that he hadn’t expected to wake up at all, it wasn’t a half-bad thing to hear.  Blinking eyes that felt gritty and heavy, Bond slowly came around, his other senses following suit after his hearing picked up the world around him.  His limbs felt made of lead, but he tried to move them anyway, which resulted in a heavy sigh from the silver-haired woman sitting primly in the chair next to his bed.  

“Really, Bond?  Must you always do your level best to rip out stitches within the first minute of regaining consciousness?”

Stilling his body with effort, James finally took stock of the hospital surroundings he was in - they were unfamiliar, which made his skin prickle, but the presence of M finally convinced him that he wouldn’t need any self-defense in the near future.  He settled back down, although he made a face and muttered back anyway, “I thought you _liked_ it when I gave one-hundred percent of my effort to a task.”

“Tasks I assign you.”  A glance told Bond that the older woman was fighting a small smile.  She hadn’t moved an inch when his fight-or-flight instincts had run their course, being smart enough to know that there was no stopping a 00-agent if he took it upon himself to move - she was wise that way.  Voice a bit less strident, she went on, “You must have put quite a bit of effort into your last mission.  Everyone thought you were dead when word reached us of wreckage washing up on the beach, reputedly from the ship your target captained.  Imagine our surprise when we found you about a mile up the coast, alive.”

Bond drew his brows together, eyeing the drip of the I.V. connected to his hand, trying to likewise connect the dots.  Unfortunately, everything was a big blank after his last look at Q.  “Well, don’t look at me,” he defended as he tried to figure things out, or at least gather his words together, “I’m as surprised as you are.”  He tested his muscles a bit more subtly this time, flexing them one by one to get a sense of just how wrecked his body was.  He hissed almost immediately, and didn’t have to look to know that M was giving him an unimpressed but also unsurprised look.

“Coincidentally, the location where you were found was a far more populated stretch of beach than where the rest of the ship came ashore - along with a goodly number of bodies, I might add - so you were rushed to this hospital almost instantly.  You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days, thanks to hypothermia and blood-loss.”  M blinked and cocked one eyebrow.  “I also hope that the four broken ribs you sustained and a couple hundred stitches will convince you to take it easy for a few _more_ days.”

Looking at his arm, wrapped tightly in bandages but numb in a way that suggested morphine (a fact corroborated by the fuzzy quality of his thoughts), 007 admitted that this _might_ slow him down a bit.  He cleared his throat, trying not to appear restless after only being awake and immobile for a little over a minute, “I imagine you’ll want my report before then?”

“I want your report _now_ , actually,” the older woman corrected.  She softened the callousness of her words by tilting her mouth ever-so-slightly - as close to a fond look as she ever got, a look that no other agent got as often as Bond.  “It was suggested by Tanner, believe it or not, that you might explain this more truthfully while under the influence of a cocktail of painkillers.”

Bond snorted, lifting his left hand carefully to prod at his head.  He found bandages wrapped around it, no doubt doing amusing things to his hair, but no pain.  Painkillers, indeed.  “That cheeky bastard.  And he won’t say this to my face, I’d imagine?” he played back.

Now M was definitely smiling, faint and wry.  “Stop being a pain in my arse, 007, and explain to me what happened.  Start from the beginning.”

So he did, and not because he was drugged to the gills but because this was M, and he trusted her.  He wondered if that was exactly why she was here: knowing that her agent couldn’t be moved yet, but would be waking up soon, she’d made the trip to a seaside hospital to make sure that he didn’t rampage through the place in a fit of paranoia or temper.  People often judged M for how cold she could be, as the iron fist of MI6, but Bond always scoffed at them and secretly remembered these moments.  M was always there when it counted, and it made relaxing back into the hospital bed easier.  

Bond was drifting pleasantly by the time he got to the end of his report, rousing from time to time as M questioned him and he snarked something back, a stroppy back-and-forth that came naturally to them and got all of the facts hashed out.  M took no notes.  There were no cameras in the room.  The former wasn’t needed and the second wasn’t allowed.  Bond had already noticed by this point, however, that two familiar agents were watching the doors, no doubt thinking that they’d gone unnoticed.  Bond snorted to himself, amused, thinking that they should know better than to count him out just because he was on morphine.  

Still, sleep called, his body demanding rest after what it had endured.  

The last thing he remembered saying was said with a grimace and a slight slur, “Silva… I can’t confirm…”

“Oh, we know he’s dead,” M surprised him by saying.  She was still sitting by the bed, and in fact dug something out of her purse - a book, as if she intended to stay.  When Bond stared at her in muzzy disbelief, the older woman merely met his eyes, sighed when it was clear he wouldn’t go to sleep until he understood, then put her book down on her lap to explain, “As much as it may surprise you, Mr. Bond, you made some friends out in the field.”

That… made a small amount of sense.  Bond started to drift off again.  “Q?” he found himself saying, and even though he’d omitted the merman’s name from his entire report, he was instantly hearing M answering again.

“Yes, Q.  And Eve.  The former is actually very eager to see you again.”

~^~

Bond didn’t see Q that week, or the week after, as he recovered and submitted to a certain amount of therapy to overcome the injuries he’d amassed.  Apparently it had been worse than he’d originally assumed, and the doctors seemed shocked that he’d survived.  Since they didn’t technically know that he was a 00-agent, perhaps they could be forgiven for underestimating him.  In that time-period, Bond stayed in the seaside hospital and the surrounding area, told by M - in a letter, as she was gone by the time he awoke - that he was on forced leave for the time being.  

He went down to the shore often, as soon as he was able.  The sea always looked rough and tumultuous, and he scanned it with steady, curious eyes, hoping for a flash of a tail or something breaking up the waves.  

Nothing.  

With the philosophical mindset of an agent who’d met and forgotten more people already that most would meet in twice his lifetime, 007 eventually gave up, making his ‘thank you’s to Q silently.  Sometimes, when the nights were long and the company sparse, he’d think back on his brief meeting with the merman and wonder if Q, when not in a life-threatening situation, was much of a conversationalist.  

It bothered Bond just a little that he couldn’t get the memory of  those expressive hazel eyes out of his head.  Then again, perhaps it was simply hard to forget someone who had saved him by literally breathing life into him, multiple times.  He still didn’t remember the whole swim to shore, except in bits and snatches, in which he always remembered Q.  Stubborn, determined Q.  

When he was recalled at long last to MI6, he said goodbye to the sea with reluctance, hoping to have an excuse to work with the merfolk later, as unlikely as that seemed.  Then he could ask what had become of Q, and if he’d had any chance to make more inventions.  The closer to London Bond got, the more at home he felt, and by the time he was in his usual suit and striding confidently into MI6, he felt very nearly himself again, as if nothing had ever happened.  

Until he stepped into the research and development division.  He’d  been told to swing by there, even though he’d lost the entirety of his kit, in order that they might equip him with a new gun.  All thoughts of guns were quick forgotten, however, as 007 paused almost midstep and merely stared.  

As always, the room was abuzz with activity, tech analysts and engineers moving about like ants in their anthill.  Standing at the center of it all, however, speaking in clipped, posh tones that radiated competence and just a little bit of hubris, was a young man with the most ridiculous mop of black-brown hair.  Bond had to physically shake himself, deja vu settling over him, unsettling his grasp of reality for a brief and almost painful moment.  That movement, however, simply served to catch the attention of the boffin at the hive’s center, and he turned to look at Bond immediately.

Those eyes.  

They were hidden by glasses now, dark-rimmed things that made him look scholarly and ridiculous and adorable all at once, but the same vibrant hazel.  Likewise, his pale skin was presently covered in clothing that made Bond’s fashion sense cringe but at the same time looked perfectly eccentric and entirely… Q.  Q, if Q were on land, with two legs and a pianist's hands with no webbing between the fingers.  For a moment, 007 felt his heart twist, and the smile he gathered up was a polite cover for an indescribable sort of pain he was feeling in his chest, as if he were losing something all over again.  This was just someone who looked liked Q.  And somehow, that was a more painful trick than never seeing the merman again at all.  

But the bespectacled boffin continued to look at him with special interest, and then smiled like he knew him.  “James Bond?” he asked, and 007’s heart now felt like there was a hook buried in it, being yanked by a voice too familiar to be faked.  “Or is it Richard Sterling this time?” Q finished with soft, dry humor, his lips just barely playing with that smirk of his.  

Not wasting a moment more, 007 strode the rest of the way into the room, bluffing and acting normal - casual, even.  All the while, Q watched him, and only lifted one eyebrow when 007 rather obviously eyed his legs.  “I’m afraid that they’re not much to look at,” the boffin joked when Bond was close enough to chat with politely.  

Realizing that he’d been caught staring, 007 chuffed out a breath that wasn’t sure whether to be a laugh or not.  He was still collecting his balance.  He had enough daring, however, to impudently reach forward and grip one of Q’s hands, however - surprisingly, he was met with no resistance whatsoever, although people were beginning to stare.  “Perhaps you don’t have legs like a show-girl, but _these_ look like they tell a story,” 007 joked back, all charm, as he playfully splayed Q’s dexterous fingers in his grip.  These fingers were unwebbed, and the little claws that had scratched his cheek were all gone.  Bond didn’t know what to make of this, or what to hope for, and was struggling more and more to hide his frustrated confusion.  

Still not pulling his hand back, but instead leaning a hip against the nearby desk - as if lazy, or as if standing too long tired his legs - Q just kept smiling his soft smile.  “Well, that depends - what kind of story are you looking for?” Q asked with almost professional dryness, but before Bond could answer, he turned his hand over gently.

The same wounds that Bond had seen bleeding across Q’s palm - _his_ Q’s palm, back in the ocean - were now small scars, forming a crooked line across soft skin.  

Then Q’s other hand lifted, having pulled something from a pocket, and it deposited something in Bond’s grasp: his switchblade.  Bond just got a glimpse of similar scars on Q’s other palm, and suddenly wondered if the others ones were there.  He felt his suspicion and wariness melting away to a warm delight, and his smile deepened and became more real as it stretched across his face.  

“Q,” he greeted, formality hiding his cheer imperfectly.

“It’s Quartermaster now.  But… it’s good to see you again, James.”

Shaking his head and marveling at what he said, Bond gave Q’s shoulder an impulsive nudge, just to see him stumble back on two feet that he hadn’t had  before.  Q - truly Q now, the Quartermaster, a position that had been vacant for awhile, 007 recalled - recovered quickly, and for a moment his smile became boyish like a child playing in snow for the first time.  “Explain this to me, Q.  How is this even real?”

“Well, you did bump your head…”

“Really, Q,” Bond sobered, even as his flicked his eyes around them.  At some point, everyone had backed off, perhaps sensing secrets that they’d best not know.  Agents like 007 always carried secrets, and they’d probably never seen him acting like this around anyone, and therefore dispersed like a quiet flock of birds.  

With a little sigh, Q pulled out the computer chair with a roll of wheels and sat in it, stretching out and crossing his legs, all the while looking at them with a totally believable sort of fascination.  He rubbed at his right leg, and 007 wondered if that correlated with where his own injuries had been, back when he’d had fins.  When Q looked up again, his smile was more enigmatic, “Technically, this is a power that all of my kind have.”

“You can all transform?”  Taking a seat on the desk itself put 007 close enough to touch, and Q didn’t seem to mind their shoes nudging together.  In fact, Q nudged back, seemingly just for the sake of wiggling his toes within the confines of his shoes.  

“Unbelievable, I know, but it’s not something that is exercised often,” Q answered a bit more shyly.  

Tilting his head, amazing but recalling that merpeople themselves were unbelievable, 007 pressed because it was second nature, “Because what merman in his right mind would give up the sea for boring dry land?”

He didn’t expect any more answer than a laugh, and had in fact said the sentence as a way to let Q off the hook - to joke, and let him know that he didn’t need the details.  Sometimes, amazing things just had to be admired, like his own phoenix-like escapes from death.  Bond’s last incredible survival, however, had been due to the incredible man - merman - now sitting elegantly in front of him, so when Q looked at him with an uncertain but hopeful smile, James listened with rapt attention.  “Maybe…”  Q licked his lips, then pushed up his glasses, eyebrows rising to disappear into his mop of hair.  His words were as quietly hushed as waves upon the beach, and he answered Bond’s question, “Only one who finds something even more important to them than the sea.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There :) Finished. Hopefully everyone is okay with Q's miraculous change of shape! I warned that this was pre-relationship, so I'll leave everyone to imagine what happens next. I don't have any plans to return to this world, but enjoyed writing in it immensely. Again, a million thanks to my artist for letting me make a story around her art ;3 It was truly a treat!
> 
> Also: brownie-points to anyone who knows what the _first_ -oldest profession is... ;)

**Author's Note:**

> It's a teensy bit cheating to have this as a Part 1 of 2, but I plan to get the rest of this up within the week, so hopefully I'll be entirely within the deadlines ;) And art shall also be posted with Part 2! Hope everyone is enjoying the pre-00Q-fluff!


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